In the spring of 1902, Holmes and I had been in St Paul, Minnesota, helping our friend Shadwell Rafferty. The case was one of embezzlement, that threatened to bring down the Governor and his entire coalition in the ruling Democratic party. With the public screaming for impeachment, Holmes and I had been able to prove that the Governor was blameless and that the perpetrator was actually a low-level functionary in the opposition party. The Governor was exonerated, and Rafferty went back to his role as a saloonkeeper, with a bit of private detection on the side.
Holmes and I were now headed east. We had boarded a Northern Pacific sleeper in Minneapolis bound for Chicago, and then changed to a Southern Pacific to Boston via Albany, New York. We were rattling through Pennsylvania near Scranton, soon to cross into upstate New York. Holmes was in the window seat gazing out at the passing cityscape. He had been quiet for more than an hour. He was pensive, seemingly lost in thought. He would often retire into the recesses of his remarkable brain, rehashing one or another aspect of a case. I presumed that he was now ruminating about the problem that we solved in St Paul.
Our quiet reverie was interrupted by the appearance of a train porter who walked briskly by the glass door to our private compartment and then abruptly stopped, turned, and knocked on our door.
He entered and said, “Is one of you gentlemen Sherlock Holmes?”
Holmes looked at me in surprise and said, “I’m Sherlock Holmes.”
The fellow seemed a bit shaken to be in the presence of the great detective. He collected himself and said: “Mr Holmes, the conductor has received a message via radio for you. It is requested by one Shadwell Rafferty that you detrain in Springfield, Massachusetts. We will be approaching Springfield in fifty-five minutes. You will be met at the station by a Mr Finbar Rafferty, who will explain. The message is marked URGENT.”
“Thank you, young man” said Holmes.
I fished in the pocket of my waistcoat and found an American ten cent piece and handed it to the porter. He thanked me, turned and left us, closing the door to our compartment.
“What could this be about, Holmes?”
“Certainly nothing having to do with the Minnesota business. I expect that it has something to do with Rafferty’s brother.”
“Shad spoke to me once about his brother,” I said. “I have a recollection that the brother is a politician in Springfield. Reasonably high up in the Mayor’s office.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Holmes. He then closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the padded bench. He drifted off to sleep.
In exactly fifty-four minutes the porter was back, knocking on the door of our compartment. He popped his head in and said: “Mr Holmes, we’re just coming into Union Station in Springfield, Massachusetts. Your trunks are at the door. It’s been a pleasure having you gentlemen aboard. We wish you a pleasant stay in Springfield.”
We emerged out onto the platform in the early afternoon sun, stretched our limbs after the long trip on the rails, and saw a huge man approaching us with a gaggle of assistants.
“Mr Holmes. Dr Watson. Thank God you got my message. I’m Finbar Rafferty.” He shoved his enormous right hand toward us and proceeded with a muscle-cringing hand shake.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Finbar,” I said. “Your brother has become quite a dear friend over the years.”
“So I understand. Please call me Finn, gentlemen.”
“We’re happy to be here, Finn, and to be of whatever service we might offer,” replied my companion.
“Marvelous. Follow me, gentlemen. I have a carriage waiting outside the station to take us immediately to City Hall. There we can brief you on the emergency that we’re facing. The carriage will take your trunks to the Massasoit Hotel on Main Street. I’ve reserved a suite of rooms for you there.”
The carriage pulled up behind the massive structure that was Springfield City Hall. We were quickly shuffled in behind Rafferty and up the grand stairway to the Mayor’s office on the fourth level. Rafferty knocked twice, and we were ushered in. We walked through an ante-room and proceeded through a polished mahogany double door into the Mayor’s private office. The Mayor was sitting behind his desk. He took off his glasses and stood to greet us.
“Mr Mayor,” said Rafferty, “allow me to introduce Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. Gentlemen, this is Mayor Thomas Kenneally.”
Holmes spoke first. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Mayor,” he said, and proffered his hand.
I followed suit with a similar greeting and accepted the Mayor’s hand.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you have interrupted your journey to help our city deal with something very insidious,” said Kenneally. “We have a dire emergency on our hands.”
“Mr Mayor, we’re pleased to be here and to assist you in any way that we can. Since time appears to be short, please tell us about the situation in careful detail. Don’t leave anything out,” said Holmes, taking a seat in front of the Mayor’s grand desk. I joined him in the second chair.
“Let me begin at the beginning,” said Mayor Kenneally. “There is a conference and large celebratory dinner scheduled to take place in Springfield at the Massasoit Hotel in two days. It is the tenth anniversary of the founding of the Sierra Club, and the club is honouring its two founders—the Scotsman John Muir and our new President, Theodore Roosevelt, who succeeded President McKinley after he was assassinated in Buffalo less than a year ago. Springfield is a small city and we’re not accustomed to hosting affairs involving the sitting President of the United States. There is a great deal of anxiety across the city, the more so due to the fact that McKinley was assassinated by the Polish anarchist Leon Czolgosz. Now with Roosevelt on the way, our police force will be looking for anarchists around every street corner.”
“I understand the heightened concern,” said Holmes. “I’d expect such under the circumstances. But I’m sure the President will have extra security when he travels. But how does the anarchist hysteria, if I might call it that, affect Watson and me?”
“My office received this letter two days ago. It is unsigned, and it was mailed from a post box in downtown Springfield.” He pushed a soiled envelope across to Holmes.
Holmes opened the envelope and read the small folded letter without any reaction. He studied it for several seconds without comment.
“What does it say, Holmes?” I said.
“It says: Prepare. Rosevelt will be executed in Springfield. Roosevelt is misspelled.”
“Good God!” I uttered. “Do you think it’s a serious threat?”
“If we didn’t think that it’s a serious threat, we wouldn’t have interrupted your trip to Boston,” replied Kenneally.
“Did the assassin in Buffalo give any such advance warning?” asked Holmes. “Any letter or telegram? Anything to alert the authorities in advance?”
“Nothing that we are aware of,” piped in Rafferty, joining the conversation.
“I’m not surprised,” said Holmes. “Although I haven’t studied assassination attempts by anarchists very thoroughly, I have a strong feeling that anarchists take credit after the deed is done, rather than offering a warning in advance, because the outcome is of utmost importance to the assassination plot. On the other hand, angry people with a grudge or crazy people on some imagined mission to right a wrong, tend to send messages like this one. They crave the attention, even though at that point the threat is not identified with any would-be killer. I wouldn’t totally rule out another anarchist, but I believe that we should explore other possibilities in the time that we have available to us.”
Again, Rafferty spoke. “We certainly agree with that, Mr Holmes. But we’re quite desperate, here. We don’t want this to get out to the general public for fear of truly widespread panic. But we have a couple of days before the President arrives. What do you think we should do?”
“At the moment, I think you should do nothing,” said Holmes. “Watson and I shall retire to our hotel to rest after our journey. I would suggest that we reconvene this evening at eight to start to formulate a plan. Please invite the chief of police.”
“Wouldn’t that be wasting six hours?” snapped Kenneally.
“Not for me,” replied Holmes. “We have made some progress already this afternoon. I believe that we already know who the would-be assassin isn’t. And that’s important progress. We have two days to discover who he is! Come Watson; let’s walk over to our hotel. I need to clear my head.”
* * * *
We left the Mayor’s office with Rafferty in the lead. We proceeded down the stairs and exited City Hall onto the street, through the rear entry. We urged Rafferty to go ahead and make sure that there was no record of a Holmes or a Watson on the hotel register, and to pick up two keys for us.
“Let’s walk around the block,” said Holmes. “We need to give Rafferty a bit of time to make our stay anonymous.”
I turned to Holmes as we walked. “Holmes, why are you so sure that our would-be assassin is not another anarchist? You seemed to have come to that conclusion rather quickly.”
“My dear fellow,” he replied. “You know me well enough to know that I never blurt out a conclusion without having thought about it. In this instance, I do feel quite certain. One can never rule out an event until we have determined that it’s impossible, as I have mentioned to you before, so it’s still possible that this could be a threat from an anarchist. But I don’t think so. Beyond what I said upstairs about a threat in advance, rather than a credit-taking afterward, two other aspects of the warning note strike me as important. The first is the misspelling of the President’s name. Someone who is intent on changing the world order by killing a president would probably have his name down pat. The second is the use of the word execute. That’s an unusual word to use when one intends to say murder. To me the use of that term brings with it quite a different frame of reference. No, Watson, I think that we’re looking for somebody who’s closer to home.”
“I tend to agree, Holmes, but it may take some work to convince the fellows upstairs.”
“My thought exactly,” he replied. “That’s why I am going to keep the assassin discussion alive while you and I are exploring who else would want to kill President Roosevelt. I hope to convince the police chief to chase the assassin theory and to add a full layer of security over and above the Secret Service once the President arrives, and particularly at the event in the hotel ballroom. That certainly will not be a wasted use of police resources. But if in so doing we can keep him distracted with that business, it should give us the license to pursue all other avenues of inquiry. We will need all the freedom of movement that we can get, given that we have very few hours to find the would-be killer and stop him.”
“How do we start, Holmes?
“Let’s begin by getting some rest. I suggest that we go to the hotel and settle in. We’re to be back at City Hall at eight o’clock. Let’s reconvene in our parlour over a room-service dinner at seven o’clock and lay out a strategy.”
* * * *
When we arrived at the hotel, we found that Rafferty indeed had checked us in under assumed names and that our suite was ready for us. Holmes chose to retire to his bedroom to nap; I decided to explore the hotel.
I began by walking the corridor on our floor. I popped into the exit stairwell which only lead down, since we were on the top floor. I walked each floor, noting nothing unusual. I came off the stairwell at the second level, which housed the ballroom and several smaller meeting rooms. The Grand Ballroom was indeed a grand space: one large ballroom with an open balcony around its entire perimeter. The balcony interested me, so I walked up another interior stair to it. It consisted of numerous open areas, but also six private theatre-style compartments. I made a mental note to describe the balcony to Holmes. The compartments, which would probably not be in use for the Presidential dinner, would be an ideal hiding place for a shooter with a rifle. Any of the six compartments would command an unobstructed view of the entire ballroom.
I walked out the front door onto Main Street and strolled around the block on which the hotel was situated. I wanted to look at any other entrances and the loading dock, to see if anything struck me as unusual. Nothing did, so I went back into the hotel and took the elevator up to the sixth floor.
When I arrived at our floor, I encountered a room service waiter pushing a cart ahead of me. We arrived at room 625 simultaneously. I opened the door with my key and ushered him inside. Holmes was sitting in the parlour reading from the hotel information brochure.
“Ah, Jones, you’ve arrived just in time. I took the liberty of ordering dinner for both of us. I found roast mutton on the menu, with all the fixings.”
“You’ve done well, Smith,” I said with a bit of a chuckle. “Mrs Hudson would be quite pleased with your choice.”
* * * *
We ate our meal, making small talk about the food and the differences between the roast lamb that our landlady on Baker Street routinely serves, and what the hotel put out. Truth be told, the American version proved to be quite good.
Holmes then began our strategy session.
“Watson, I think that we must make good use of our time tomorrow morning. I don’t think that we’ll accomplish much at City Hall tonight, although I’m interested in hearing what, if anything, the Police Chief has in mind as a response to the letter. As I said, I think that we must encourage him to stay on the anarchist theory, primarily to keep him out of our way over the next two days, but also because there is some chance—slim, in my opinion, but some—that his work might prove fruitful.”
“I agree. That takes care of him. What do you see us doing in the morning to try to get out ahead of this?”
Holmes was quiet for a short time and then looked at me and said, “I think that we need to split up. I’ve arranged for an early meeting with the manager of the hotel. I want to review the registrations of everybody who’s currently a guest in the hotel, and also of guests who will check in the next two days.”
“What do you hope to find?”
“I have no idea. I admit that it’s a single straw in a haystack, but someone or something may strike me as being of interest. I also plan to review the personnel files of every current employee in the hotel, and anybody who has left the employ of the hotel in the past six months. I’m hoping that something jumps out at me.”
“Then I hope that you find something of interest. What should I be doing in the morning?”
“Watson, I’m leaving the difficult part for you. I’d like you to have Rafferty arrange a meeting with the editor of The Springfield Republican, which apparently is the newspaper of record here. I’d like you to review anything in the files about the period in 1898 and 1899 when Theodore Roosevelt was serving as Governor of New York State.”
“I didn’t know that he had been Governor,” I offered. “I thought that he’d been elected Vice President and then succeeded McKinley after his assassination.”
“I remember reading about him in our own Times when he became President. Actually, if I recall correctly, he was not elected Vice President but rather was appointed by the Congress when the sitting Vice President became ill and died in office. Prior to that, he had been briefly the Governor of New York, and a number of years earlier he had been the Police Commissioner of New York City.”
“A remarkable ascension, from a head bobby to President of the United States. Only in this wild and woolly country could such an unlikely sequence of events occur.”
“Well said, Watson, but don’t let any thoughts that we might have about this upstart republic get in the way of what we must do in the next two days.”
“Agreed, Holmes. What do you want me to look for?”
“If I knew the answer to that, we’d be well on our way to a solution. I’m hoping, since Springfield is very close to the New York state capital in Albany, that The Republican covers New York state news as well as national news. I’d like you to prevail upon the editor to walk you through his archives, looking for anything intriguing from late 1898 through 1899 that has to do with Roosevelt’s term as Governor.”
“What kinds of things would you expect me to find?”
“Anything that strikes your interest. Anything that might be controversial. Maybe something important. Maybe nothing. We’re both grasping for straws, here. Let’s see if one of us can find one to grab onto.”
* * * *
The meeting at City Hall proved uneventful. The group was assembled in the Mayor’s Office with Rafferty. The one newcomer was a round, blustery fellow in a police uniform. He was introduced as Armand Ravida, Chief of the Springfield Police Department. He gave Holmes and me a perfunctory handshake and went back to what was obviously a conversation underway when we arrived.
“As I was saying, we need to canvas the Polish community in town. I believe that we have an anarchist in our midst, maybe more than one. And if we do, that’s where we’ll find them. Beginning tomorrow morning I’m going to have my street cops going door to door in our Little Poland. I’ll be very surprised if we don’t nip this supposed plot in the bud.”
The Mayor turned to Holmes and said, “What do you think of that strategy, Mr Holmes?”
“I think it makes every bit of sense to begin the search there. The Chief obviously knows the neighborhoods and any hotbeds of political activity in the city. And he has the resources at his disposal to conduct a sweep.”
“Won’t that alert the entire city to the fear that we have an assassin on our hands?” posited Rafferty. “We’re trying to avoid a wide spread panic, if we can.”
“I think the Chief is an experienced hand at this sort of thing. I’m certain he’ll handle it with the required discretion,” said Holmes, with what I detected to be a slight bit of sarcasm.
Nobody else in the room seemed to have noticed Holmes’s tone. The Chief’s massive medal-strewn chest swelled at what he took to be a compliment from an equal in the business of fighting crime.
Holmes proceeded to describe, offering little detail, our plans for the next morning. The group reacted quietly, almost disappointedly, to his recital. It was almost as if they had expected the world’s greatest detective to have the matter solved by lunch-time.
We made plans to meet the following evening at the same time to review that day’s progress. The hope was expressed, somewhat pointedly by the Mayor, that we had some progress on which to report.
Holmes and I stood. We said our goodbyes and left the Mayor’s office. When we reached the street, again by the back door, and began walking back to our hotel I said to Holmes, “What do you think of Chief Ravida?”
“I think that he’s a clown,” he said with a smile. “But at least he’s out of our way. That was all that I’d hoped for from tonight’s meeting. Tomorrow promises to be an interesting day.”
* * * *
When I awoke in the morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, I came into the parlour expecting to find Holmes thinking about breakfast. Instead I found a note saying he would be back by early afternoon and he would meet me then. There was no indication of where he was going or what he was doing, but that was typical of Holmes.
I took my breakfast alone in the hotel dining room which was pleasant enough, although I vastly preferred our own English version. I went back to our suite to get my outer clothes and a notebook and headed off down Main Street to the headquarters of The Springfield Republican.
When I arrived, I found that Rafferty had done his work well. The editor, quite an engaging fellow called Charles Lowry, greeted me in the lobby and ushered me immediately up through the bustling newsroom and into his office.
“Dr Watson, it is a pleasure to meet you. Finn Rafferty told me that you needed to have a look at our archives for some information on President Roosevelt. What exactly do you want to review? We have excellent archives, at least for the past five years, thanks to this new invention called microfilm,” said Lowry.
“I’ve heard of it, but never seen it. What I need to look at is anything about Roosevelt during the time that he was Governor of New York,” I said.
“That should be relatively easy,” offered Lowry. “Roosevelt was only Governor for a little more than one year. My recollection is that before being elected Governor he was the Police Commissioner of New York City for a number of years. Will you have any interest in those years?”
“I suppose that will depend on what we find in the gubernatorial year,” I said, probably sounding more hopeful than I was feeling.
“Let’s get at it then. I’ll take you to the microfilm room and get you set up.”
* * * *
Four hours later I thanked Lowry for his help and headed back to the hotel. In the hour that I spent looking at the years during which Roosevelt was Governor I found only a few items of news that barely met Holmes’s instruction of things that struck my interest. For the balance of my time I examined his years as New York City Police Commissioner and found absolutely nothing of interest. It appeared that he was much respected in the city and seemed to have avoided controversy of any kind.
I let myself into our suite, not expecting that Holmes would be back from his morning’s effort, presumably with the hotel manager.
To my surprise he was sitting at the dining table in the parlour with piles of folders spread out before him.
“Good afternoon, Watson,” he said, looking up. “I hope that you had a more successful morning than I did.”
“I’m not sure that I did. The Republican has a very modern archive system, which made it easy to review news stories, certainly as recent as the year 1899. That said, I didn’t find much of anything. There were only one or two situations, but I’m afraid my efforts aren’t going help us very much. What did you find out?”
“About the same: not much. I spent the morning with the general manager here, a proper German hotelier named Werner Schultz. I reviewed the guest list of the hotel from tonight through the weekend, including the night of the President’s dinner. Many of the weekend guests are members of the Sierra Club, as one would expect. They certainly won’t make our suspect list. As for the balance, it’s hard to tell much from a list of names.”
“Did you find any Polish names?” I asked, more in jest than in the belief that it would have meant anything.
“Not a one. I’m leaving the Polish witch hunt to our friend Ravida.”
“What are all these folders?” I asked, pointing at the piles in front of Holmes.
“Employee personnel files. All current employees, and those who have left the hotel in the past three months.”
“Anything of interest there?”
“It’s hard to know. There are eighty current employees and twenty more who have left the hotel recently. It appears to be quite a stable group. Most of the employees have been here for a number of years. At this point it doesn’t give us much to go on. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve found?”
“Well, there is one interesting news story from March 1899. It has to do with the execution of a murderer that took place on Roosevelt’s watch. This was apparently the only execution in the state of New York that year. The Republican reported that on March 20, 1899, a woman was put to death in the electric chair at New York’s Sing Sing prison. She was the first woman in America to be killed using the chair that our American cousins refer to as ‘Old Sparky.’”
“What else do we know about her?”
“Her name was Martha Place. She was convicted of bludgeoning her step-daughter to death in February 1898.”
“This could be something that might make one hold a grudge,” offered Holmes. “Maybe a grudge that would make one want to retaliate. Or even kill for revenge.”
I flipped through the notes I’d taken at The Republican. “The news report says that she was born in New Jersey in 1849. Her birth name was Martha Garretson. She married a widower named William Place and moved with him to Brooklyn. The murder victim was Place’s daughter from his earlier marriage.”
“It would appear that Garretson and her step-daughter didn’t get along very well,” mused Holmes.
“So it would seem.”
“Did it mention anything else about her?” he asked, his interest seeming to flag.
“Her husband testified against her at the trial and her brother—one Thomas Garretson—publicly protested her innocence. He claimed that she had been brain damaged in a carriage accident as a young woman and that her mental condition should have been taken into consideration at her trial, particularly at her sentencing. Apparently, he often staged a one-man protest in front of her prison, right up through the night of her execution.”
“Anything more about the brother?” asked Holmes.
“It seems that he appealed to the Governor to commute the death sentence, which Roosevelt refused to do. On the night of the execution, Garretson was arrested for a disorderly protest outside the prison in Ossining.”
“What became of him?”
“The press files indicate that he was released from the lockup the next morning and disappeared,” I said, putting my notes away.
“An interesting tale, Watson, although I don’t know how it helps us.”
“I had certainly hoped for more, Holmes, but it would appear that Roosevelt’s brief term as Governor was quite uneventful, as was his longer stint as Police Commissioner.”
“My dear fellow, it was a shot in the dark at best. Probably a miss…. Although the name Thomas Garretson sounds familiar. Yet I don’t know why it would. I can’t recall ever having heard that surname before.”
“Could he possibly be a guest in the hotel?” I asked. “That would put the name in the hotel’s ledger.”
Holmes suddenly seemed energized again. “I don’t think so. But your question makes me think about something else,” he said as he grabbed the pile of personnel files and started flipping through them.
He remained silent as he worked his way through the stack of folders, and then he stopped at one and studied it.
“Here’s a fellow called Garrett Thomas,” he said. “He’s listed as being a room service waiter. Started his employment in January 1901. His file shows two former employers in Brooklyn. Can you tell from your notes how old this Martha Place was at the time of her execution?”
“The newspaper reported that she was fifty years old.”
“About the same age as this Thomas fellow would have been at the time,” he said, again referring to the file. “By any chance did the news report list a date of birth for the executed murderer?”
“I don’t recall having seen it on the microfilm, but I must have, since I wrote a date into my notes. DOB: September 18, 1849.”
“An interesting coincidence, Watson. The file on our man Thomas lists the same birth date.”
“Holmes, are you suggesting…”
“I am. I believe that there is a strong possibility that the missing Thomas Garretson is the twin brother of Martha Place. He resurfaced a year ago with a new name, similar to his old name.”
“To avoid the shame of being related to the only woman executed in the notorious electric chair, but without having to create an entirely new identity,” I offered.
“Precisely, Watson. Good work this morning. Go back to your friend at The Republican and see if he has a photograph of Martha Place on file. I’m certain that there would have been one. With that in hand, I suggest we meet with Schultz, the manager here. The photograph can confirm any likeness to Garret Thomas, and then we can quickly schedule a meeting with Rafferty, the Mayor, and Ravida.”
“I’m off, Holmes. As you’re fond of saying, ‘the game is afoot.’”
“Do hurry, Watson. We have no time to lose. Roosevelt is due in Springfield early tomorrow morning.”
* * * *
Two hours later, Holmes and I, along with Werner Schultz, walked up the stairs in City Hall to the Mayor’s office. Lowry at The Republican was able to produce a news photo of Martha Place from her trial. We showed the photo to Schultz and he confirmed what we’d suspected: the woman in the photo from the newspaper bore a striking resemblance to his employee Garrett Thomas. Schultz agreed to join us at the City Hall meeting, where we would decide our next steps.
We met Finbar Rafferty in front of the Mayor’s office.
“Mr Holmes,” said Rafferty. “I just heard from the Mayor that you’ve summoned a meeting with him and Ravida. I hope that means that you’ve made some progress, because I don’t think that the Chief has done much other than stir up the Polish community.”
“Watson and I have made some progress, which we shall share with the group. At the moment we have reason to believe that we’ve identified a person of interest, as they say at Scotland Yard.”
“A person of strong interest,” I chimed in.
“We’ll see soon enough.”
We knocked and entered. The Mayor and the Chief were already sitting at the Mayor’s conference table.
“Come in, gentlemen, come in. We think that Chief Ravida is getting very close,” said Kenneally.
Holmes and I looked at each other. “Excellent,” said Holmes. “Watson and I can use all the help that we can get.”
We listened without comment to Ravida’s grandiose description of his department’s sweep of the Polish neighborhoods in Springfield, including the fact that he had six men in custody.
The Mayor looked across the table at Holmes. “What do you think, Mr Holmes? Does this wrap it up?”
“It may well. Indeed, it may well. You and your men are to be commended. But do let me tell you what Watson and I have discovered.”
Holmes proceeded to go through our meeting of the morning, step by step. When he got to the point at which he described our presumption that Garrett Thomas was in fact Thomas Garretson, the twin brother of the murderess, there was silence in the room.
To his credit, Werner Schultz broke the silence. “I’ve looked at the photograph of this woman. There is no doubt in my mind that the dead woman and my employee are twins.”
Ravida was first to respond. “If that’s the case I’ll personally go to his house, wherever it is, and arrest him. I will drag him out in chains and keep him under lock and key until this event with Roosevelt is over.”
“With respect, sir, I don’t think that arresting him is the best idea,” said Holmes. “We don’t know for sure at this point that he has committed a crime. It would be very difficult to prove that he wrote the threatening letter.”
“What do you suggest then, Mr Holmes?” said Kenneally. “We can’t just sit on our hands.”
“I assure you, Watson and I have no intention of sitting on our hands. I suggest that we set a trap for Garrett Thomas at the hotel, with the support of our friend Schultz, who has assured us of his full cooperation.”
Holmes proceeded to tell the group exactly how to set the trap for the following morning. It would take place in the Presidential Suite, shortly after the President arrived at the hotel from Union Station.
The parties agreed. Only Ravida was muttering under his breath.
* * * *
The following morning, Holmes and I had an early breakfast in our suite and again went over the plan.
“Holmes, I like the plan. I do. I think that it’s a brilliant deception. Assuming, of course, that Thomas is our man. What I don’t fancy is that I’m to be the cheese in your mousetrap.”
“My dear fellow, you’ll be perfectly safe. I’ll be in the coat closet and Ravida and two of his detectives will be in the powder room just off the Presidential parlour. As soon as Thomas begins to make a move, if he does, we’ll spring the trap and subdue him.”
“That gives me some comfort, but why does somebody need to impersonate President Roosevelt in the first place? Why can’t he be at the table waiting for his lunch?”
“Several reasons. First, the Secret Service would never allow the President to be part of a plan to catch a criminal in the act, even if he were willing to play the role. But more importantly,” continued my friend, “is the fact that you bear a striking resemblance to Roosevelt. You are roughly the same size and shape. You each have the same bushy mustache. I think that you’re a perfect stand-in for the President. The more so, since Thomas will only see your back as he approaches the table.”
“It’s nice to know that I have attained perfection at something after a lengthy career.”
Holmes chuckled. “Watson, you’re among the most stalwart men I’ve known. You’ve saved my life at least twice over the years, and I would never put you at risk if I thought that the outcome for you would be dire.”
“I certainly hope that the outcome is as benign as you are projecting it to be.”
“The only person whose life is in danger is that of Garrett Thomas. And I’ll make every effort to see that he’s healthy enough to face justice.”
“When do we go into action, Holmes?”
“As soon as Roosevelt arrives at the hotel, we’ll take him into Schultz’s office and brief him and his Secret Service people on the situation. Then you’ll go up to the Presidential Suite, along with the Secret Service. Schultz has already ordered a light luncheon, as if from the Presidential party. Thomas is in the kitchen and Schultz has made arrangements for Thomas to deliver the meal.”
Almost as an afterthought, Holmes mused, “The trap is set. The bait is in place. The supporting actors know their roles. As soon as you’re upstairs impersonating Roosevelt, the curtain will rise.”
* * * *
The meeting with Roosevelt went exactly as Holmes had predicted. The President was to remain in the safety of Schultz’s office. I’d assume the role of the President and await my luncheon.
I was sitting at the large dining table with what appeared to be several small piles of work-related papers. My back was to the door. As a precaution, in the event the plan went completely awry, a small-caliber handgun had been concealed among the stacks of papers. Holmes was hidden in the closet immediately off the parlour, with the door slightly open to give him a line of sight to the table at which I was sitting. Ravida and one of his detectives were hidden in the powder room on the other side of the corridor. A Secret Service agent was in the bath off the bedroom, noisily running water to suggest that he was temporarily preoccupied, when all the while he was standing behind the half-open door with his pistol at the ready.
Soon there was a knock, followed by a voice announcing, “Room service, Mr President.”
“Please come in. The door is open,” I said, in my best American accent.
The door opened, and I turned slightly to glance at the waiter. He did indeed look like the photograph of Martha Place.
“Would you roll that over here like a good fellow?” I said, while turning my back to him and appearing to be going back to my paperwork.
“Absolutely, sir,” said Thomas. “Welcome to the Massasoit Hotel. It is a pleasure to serve you.”
“That’s kind of you. Please leave the cart here by my table. I’ll have my Secret Service agent find you with a gratuity later. He’s indisposed at the moment.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” he said. “I hope that you have a comfortable stay in Springfield.”
“Indeed I shall,” I said. “And thank you very much.”
I heard him walking away. I tensed, waiting for the trap to spring. So far, Thomas hadn’t done anything unexpected. Perhaps Holmes and I had been wrong from the beginning. I heard the door shut, and Thomas had obviously left the suite.
A few seconds passed, and I’d just begun to turn in my chair to commiserate with Holmes when I heard an angry voice.
“Executioner! Your own time has come,” said the guttural voice.
I froze. My military training did not kick in. I slowly turned to face my attacker. Just then the closet door crashed open and Holmes burst into the room.
Holmes shouted, “Drop that gun!”
A crack, like wood against bone, echoed and a piece of Holmes’s walking stick flew in the air, barely missing my head. A small black handgun skittered across the floor.
I turned to see Holmes wrestling on the floor with Thomas.
Then Ravida bellowed, charging out with his gun drawn. “Garrett Thomas, you’re under arrest!” He was joined by the Secret Service agent racing from the bedroom who dove onto the pair on the floor. Without hesitating he slammed Thomas on the side of the head with the butt of his pistol. Thomas was unconscious.
Holmes got back to his feet, adjusted his clothing, and looked at his broken walking stick. He picked up the stub end from the floor and handed it to Ravida.
“Chief Ravida,” said Holmes, “take this piece of my walking stick as a souvenir of your effort to keep your President safe. Thomas shouldn’t cause you any more trouble. I’m happy to say that you can charge him with attempted murder, rather than murder.”
“Mr Holmes, your modest assistance was quite valuable to our effort,” said Ravida, with his self-congratulatory tone firmly in place.
Holmes looked at me, rolling his eyes slightly. “Chief, you can handle things from here. Come, Watson, we have to catch our train to Boston.”
He waved rather than offering his hand. I did the same, and we turned and left Ravida to deal with the would-be assassin, who appeared to be regaining consciousness. We did indeed have a train to catch, although I think Holmes wanted to put some distance between himself and Ravida.
* * * *
We were sitting in the hotel lobby waiting for our carriage when Finn Rafferty joined us to say good-bye. Soon Mayor Kenneally burst through the revolving door into the lobby.
“Mr Holmes, Doctor! I’m so glad I caught you. The President wishes to thank you in person. Schultz called to tell me that he was on his way down to the lobby in hopes of finding you.”
A soft chime rang, and the elevator door opened. Out came Roosevelt, followed by his Secret Service agents. We stood to greet the President. As he approached, I had to agree—to myself, of course—that we were quite similar in visage.
“Mr Holmes. Dr Watson. I’m deeply in your debt, as is my country.”
“Mr President,” said Holmes, offering his hand. “We’re pleased to have been of assistance. It was as much luck as any special talent that we brought to the problem. It’s pure coincidence that Watson and I happened to be coming through Springfield when the crisis arose. If there is a hero, it certainly must be young Rafferty here, who had the presence of mind to contact his brother in Minnesota, which set the chain of events in motion.”
“Call it luck; call it coincidence, if you must,” said Mr Roosevelt. “To me it was a case of brilliant sleuthing and intuitive analysis, following a very scant pattern of facts. The public shall never know how close this came to becoming a national disaster.”
“That secret will be safe with us, Mr President,” I said. “This episode will not find its way into one of my magazine chronicles. I can assure you of that.”
“That gives me comfort, Doctor. Thank you.”
Turning to Holmes, Roosevelt said, “I understand that you broke your walking stick over the skull of my assailant. I would like to replace it. Take mine as a keepsake.” He handed Holmes a handsome ebony stick with an inlay of the Presidential Seal on the knob.
“Thank you, Mr President. I shall use this with pride. And I promise that I won’t break it over anyone’s head. Unless, of course, in a case of dire emergency.”
Roosevelt chuckled, and offered his hand once again. “I must be on my way. I have to prepare my remarks for the Sierra Club meeting. Thank you both for your help. I shall never forget what you’ve done for me. And if you find yourself on our fair shores again, please send a message to me. It would be my pleasure to have you as my guests and give me an opportunity to catch up on the current state of crime detection, which, as you may know, was once my occupation in New York City.”
With that, he turned and walked back toward the elevator with his Secret Service agent in tow.
* * * *
Holmes and I were sitting on the first class deck of the RMS Campania, about an hour out of New York City on our way to Liverpool, after which we would train back home to London. The sun was high in a blue, cloudless sky. It was a beautiful day to be on the open water.
Holmes appeared to be sleeping, although I knew he wasn’t. He was simply not in a mood for conversation. He was often like that after the conclusion of a case.
Ignoring his pretense, I said, “You know, Holmes, America is an interesting country. Still very much like what we see in the Wild West shows that come around from time to time. Seems quite a bit less civilized than our own glorious empire.”
He opened an eye and responded: “You must remember, my dear fellow, that it’s a very young country.”
I let the thought sink in and then said, “I’d like to come back one day. To take Roosevelt up on his offer.”
“Indeed. I expect Shadwell will have another assignment for us at some point. We’ll be back.”
We both fell silent, enjoying the view of the endless expanse of ocean.
After a spell of daydreaming, the vista reminded me of something I had read regarding our coming back to America.
“Holmes,” I said, “I found a copy of a recent London Times in the hotel. It seems that the White Star Line has commissioned another liner to be even bigger and faster than the Campania. She’s still quite a few years away from being christened, but we should make a point of following her progress.”
“Maybe we’ll book our next crossing on her and be part of breaking the speed record for a crossing. Have they given her a name yet?”
“They have. She’s to be called Titanic. RMS Titanic.”
———<>———
Terrence Guiney is a retired Boston hotel developer who writes crime fiction as a hobby. He is currently part of a group attempting to re-open the historic Hotel Massasoit in Springfield Mass, where this story is set and he is working on another history-based story of Holmes’s exploits in America.